


“No one will ever hurt you again.” + “It was just a dream.”

by degenerateink



Category: Far Cry (Video Games), Far Cry 5
Genre: Angst, Comfort, Drabbles, F/M, Fluff, Nightmares, Requests, Torture, but the soft!jacob we need, drabble prompts, not the soft!jacob we deserve, prompts, soft!jacob
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-14
Updated: 2018-11-14
Packaged: 2019-08-23 12:09:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16618706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/degenerateink/pseuds/degenerateink
Summary: Rook goes out for a routine mission and gets abducted.Jacob responds about as well as you'd think.TL:DR - Do NOT touch Jacob's things.





	“No one will ever hurt you again.” + “It was just a dream.”

Loyalty. 

You’ve proven yourself worthy of his trust time and time again, but there is one instance that is seared in his memory, that tortures him mercilessly when he thinks about it for too long. 

•

He remembers when you’d said goodbye.

It was supposed to be a routine mission. 

'Pup, I don't like this...'

He'd been uneasy from the beginning. 

Something about this mission just churned his gut, burned in the back of his skull, curled tight beneath his chin. 

He couldn't put a name to it, but the thought of you leaving made his chest feel hollowed out.

But you just grin, that carefree and mischievous thing that used to infuriate him because it meant nothing but trouble and a week's worth of paperwork.

'I'll be back before you know it, chief. Won't even have time to miss me,' you wink, slinging your duffel over your back with a practiced flourish. 

'Rook.' 

You blink up at him, surprised because he rarely said your name.

He curls a hand around your neck, brings your foreheads together, stares deeply into your eyes.

'Come back to me.'

The smile he receives almost balms his anxiety.

Almost.

'Won't get rid of me that easy, boss.'

•

Three weeks.

Three weeks pass, and Jacob loses his mind. 

•

They‘d snatched you - in broad fucking daylight, under the guise of an emergency, because despite everything that’d transpired, you’re adamant in helping out both Eden’s Gate and The Resistance, determined to implement the treaty and see every bit of it through - and tortured you for three weeks. 

Three horrible, agonizing weeks where he couldn't think, couldn't sleep, couldn't function - because his perfect soldier, his feisty pup, his baby girl had been kidnapped and the god that Joseph so vehemently preaches about only knows what hell you’re enduring at that very moment.

They send clips of the abuse - cowards hiding beneath masks, that Eli can’t pinpoint because they’re using voice modulators, that must be underground or in a bunker because their broadcasts are untraceable - say that they'll stop when each and every one of Jacob’s men are dead, when every last Judge is put-down, when Jacob surrenders and exchanges his life for yours. 

But before they can cut off the stream, you look the camera square in the lens - his heart fucking pounds against his ribs, your eyes boring right into his, as if you aren’t hundreds of miles away but right there in his office with him, exhausted and ravaged but steely, unwavering, fierce - and say, 'Cull the herd.' 

Jacob just barely stifles a roar as one of them backhands you across the face, snarling profanities about being a traitorous bitch, and the TV fades to static.

•

By the time they‘re able to trace the frequency of the broadcast, to locate where you’ve been held hostage for twenty-four fucking days, Jacob does something extremely uncharacteristic of his person.

He doesn't plan an organized attack. 

He doesn’t map out a strategy. 

He doesn’t think his actions through. 

No, the stoic, calculating soldier is forgotten in a burst of rage as he hauls-ass - ditching his Jeep in favor of the plane he never used, Pack Hunter - to a bunker at the edge of the region and unleashes hell. 

There isn't any mercy. 

•

You’re restrained to a chair in the basement. 

“Rook?”

Silence. 

“Rook, honey. Wake up. It’s okay. You’re safe. No one will ever hurt you again.”

He slices off the restraints, and you nearly crumble to the floor, your muscles so weak from abuse that they've lost their tension. 

He gathers you in his arms, doing his best not to crush you against him because he'd seen - fuck, he'd watched - the wounds that you’d endured. 

“Rook? Rook! Wake up!” 

•

Jacob twines your fingers together, squeezes your hand tightly, whispers soft, delicate words in your ear.

•

Severe internal bleeding, five broken ribs, multiple contusions, several gashes, collapsed lung, punctured spleen and a concussion. 

Perkins says that it‘s a miracle you’re alive. 

You bark that if you have to spend one more minute in the med-bay, someone’s getting impaled with a scalpel. 

Jacob‘s torn between breaking down and cuffing you on the back of the head.

The two meet somewhere in the middle when Jacob says, in a quiet voice he can’t remember using with anyone else, that you’re not leaving the med-bay for a week. 

•

You last three days. 

Which is more-or-less what he’d expected, in all honesty. 

Stubborn as a goddamn ox, he can’t help but think, a smile that hasn’t been on his face in weeks tweaking the corners of his mouth. 

Because for those three days, you slept like the dead. 

Jacob knows this because he refused to leave your side - anxious, unwavering, doubtful. 

Waiting for those amber eyes to open, for that mischievous smile to stretch out across your face. 

Clutching your hand tightly in his, brushing his thumb across the calloused skin of your knuckles, feeling for your pulse beneath his fingertips, even if he could hear your heart monitor in the background.

•

By the fourth day, you’re out of bed, handling a training session with the latest batch of soldiers, who are all in a state of awe that you’re alive - let alone leading your own rehabilitation therapy - and Jacob would be angry if he wasn’t so relieved to see you out of that bed, not looking like a pale, limp cadaver but his very much alive deputy. 

•

That night, when he storms into his room after not being able to find you for the better half of an hour, only for you to saunter out of his bathroom, wearing one of his t-shirts and a pair of his boxers, a towel draped around your neck... 

“Boss?”

He doesn't give you a second to acclimate.

He pushes you down against the bed, spread across his sheets, his fingers digging into your wrists, forcing them by either side of your head, leaving you a startled, confused mess.

You don’t struggle. Had anyone else tried anything like this, they'd have a broken nose and fractured jaw as proof. 

Joseph once said that you’re absolutely enamored by him - that he could absolutely obliterate you, use you up until there was nothing left, chew you up and spit you out - and you wouldn't mind a bit. 

This thought terrifies him. 

Because nobody oughta have that sort of power over you. What terrifies him more is that you have this exact power over him and you don’t even know it. He isn’t sure if that makes it better or worse. 

“Boss, what—“

He doesn't give you a chance to finish the thought, crushes your mouths together.

“Jacob, fuck—“ you moan against his lips, the sound reverberating through him, making his bones thrum and his blood sing.

He needs this. 

He needs to hear you, needs to feel you, needs to taste you. 

Because you’d been missing for three weeks.

Three weeks, and Jacob had lost his fucking mind.

Couldn't stop constructing horrific scenarios in his head. 

Couldn't stop seeing your bones break, your skin tear, your body seize. 

Couldn't stop hearing your agonized screams.

He‘d destroyed his room. Furniture smashed against the wall. Tearing into upholstery with bloodied fists. His voice had gone hoarse from screaming your name into the radio. 

The worst part was the thought of you thinking he'd abandoned you. 

Fingers bunch in the fabric of his jacket, pulling him closer, urging him further. 

“Thought I'd lost you, baby girl. Couldn't get you - hurt, bleeding, tortured - outta my head.”

“Jake...”

He kisses your throat. Chases your pulse with his mouth. Feels it stutter beneath his lips. Nearly collapses from the immense relief that it brings him.

•

This place is more labyrinthian than any of his fucking trial rooms.

He’s been running through this place for hours, his radio’s been dead for just as long, but he isn’t going to stop.

He‘s going to find you and bring you home.

“I thought he’d do anything for his perfect little soldier.”

The muscles in his jaw twitch, his fingers tightening around his gun.

“For his Queen of the Mountains.” 

His teeth gnash together in his mouth, so hard that he’s wearing them down to the bone, to the root.

“For his baby girl.” 

His blood roars in his veins, too hot for his skin, threatening to scald his flesh and seep out of his pores until he’d turned into nothing but the incarnation of rage. 

“Looks like you aren’t so special, hm?”

He’s close. Through the onslaught of anger pounding against his eardrums, the bastard’s voice is getting clearer, 

“What do we do with the weak, deputy?”

By the time Jacob can process that it isn’t one of Eli’s rogue militia, but himself standing behind you, wearing a manic, demented grin, it’s too late. 

“Cull the herd...” You choke out through the blood spilling from the irreparable gash across your throat, just as Jacob screams. 

•

— Jacob Seed. It’s 3:56— you’re in— St. Francis— Montana.

He can’t breathe. 

“— name is Jacob Seed— in the morning— your bedroom— Veteran’s Center— Hope County.”

His pulse calms down, slow but steady, so that it isn’t roaring in his ears, drowning out everything but the sight of your blood pouring out of your throat, soaking through your clothes, filling his nostrils until all he can see, taste, smell is iron. 

“Your name is Jacob Seed. It’s 3:56 in the morning. You’re in your bedroom at St. Francis Veteran’s Center in Hope County, Montana.” 

He opens his eyes, and you’re there. 

Jacob has never seen a more beautiful sight. 

“I’m going to reach for your hands, Jacob. Is that oka—“

The sentence gives way to a muffled ‘oomph’ as Jacob’s hands snatch your wrists, crushing you to his chest, his breaths coming too fast, too choppy, too hard for his lungs but he doesn’t care. 

•

You brush his sweat-slick hair out of his face, caress his cheeks with a touch that’s feather-light but grounding, touching your forehead to his so that you’re the only thing in his vision, the only thing he has to focus on. 

“You’re okay, baby. You’re safe.” 

His arms tighten around you, pulling you closer against his chest, like he wants to absorb you, swallow you whole. 

Your fingers trace the scars and burns marring his face and shoulders, like they have dozens of times before. 

You have to feel how his breath hitches at the gesture - sweet, tender, reverent. 

He doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to someone openly addressing his scars, not with disgust or scorn, but with fascination and awe, with love and adoration. 

“You’re safe, baby. You’re here, you made it, you’re okay. You’ll never be—“

“It wasn’t me. It was you.” 

“... What?” 

“We found you... I found you, but... But then they slit your fucking throat... Blood... Fuck, there was so much blood, baby, I couldn’t stop the bleeding—“ Jacob chokes out through a sob, that wracks his body down to the foundations, with a vengeance that makes his whole frame tremble, can’t find the strength to say, I did it, I slit your fucking throat, I killed you— 

The wounds you’d sustained, the scars carved into your body, the torture you’d endured at the hands of people who did so because of him... 

This is what plagued his nightmares.

This is what haunted him mercilessly.

This is what devastated him. 

“It was just a dream. I’m right here, baby. I’m fine,” you try to reassure him, your voice stronger than you feel when you see - feel - him tremble, but it isn’t enough.

Jacob shakes his head, sharp and frustrated, a snarl tearing at one side of his mouth.

“It wasn’t just a dream, Rook. They stole you from me. They tortured you for weeks. They killed you— they would’ve killed you if—“ 

Jacob can’t finish the thought, tries to swallow around the thick ball of emotion welling up in his throat, cradling your face in his worn hands, kissing every inch of your face, anything he can do to prove that you’re real, that you’re alive, that you’re here with him. 

You don’t say anything. Jacob doesn’t blame you. But then your hands slowly reach up to his face, cupping his scarred cheeks, thumbs brushing along the cut of his cheekbones—

Wet. His face is wet. He doesn’t know when he started crying.

“Baby, listen to me. I’m here. I’m alive. You saved me. I don’t have any plans to leave you anytime soon.” 

Jacob doesn’t say anything for a while, soaks in the feeling of your fingers against his skin, doesn’t think he’ll ever get enough of it, but that doesn’t mean he wouldn’t do his damndest to commit each and every one of these moments to memory. 

Your voice brings him out of his panic that he could’ve lost this. “I’ll always make my way back to you. Because this?” Your hand splays across his chest, right above his heart, which beats heavy, meaningful, begins to steady from its erratic pummeling beneath your touch. 

“This… This is home. I spent a lifetime looking for it… I’m not going to lose you now.”

More tears leak out of his eyes, stream down his face, paint his cheeks when he kisses you, your lips tasting like a salty, bittersweet paradise.

“Promise me,” he rasps against your mouth, his voice rough with raw emotion and unabashed desperation.

“I promise, Jacob,” you say, touching your forehead to his, nothing but sincerity and determination flooding your eyes, wet with tears - he isn’t the only one, you’re just as shaken as he is - and it’s enough.

For right now, it’s enough.


End file.
